


In The Club

by halotolerant



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:56:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halotolerant/pseuds/halotolerant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet for suzie_shooter with prompt 'Alex/Yassen, pillows'</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Club

The club occupied the entire floor-space of what had been a vast grain warehouse near the Thames, but the setting might have as easily been downtown Moscow, judging by the amount of slurred Russian being yelled over the hard house music, which had no words and could have been playing in any club, anywhere.

The lean blonde girl, seemingly iced with leather, who hovered with her tray over Yassen’s table, had at first murmured that she was called Pixie, then – seeing his reaction – had amended, in Russian, “But you may call me Natasha.”

Neither was likely the name of her birth, but she had been trained to cater to the fantasies of select demographics of men and it was not her fault he did not fall into them.

Yassen was also beginning to suspect that she had been given money to distract him and if possible obscure his view – nothing complicated, so much ‘business’ was done here by the expatriate community and their associates that a girl getting involved for a few twenties in her bra would invite no questions.

Particularly not if the girl had a well-honed survival instinct.

He was sitting on a circular sofa enclosing one of many raised platforms reached from the dance-floor by a short spiral stair, from which one could observe, be observed or simply disappear with select companions into the furnishings. But his line of sight to Jochenko and his entourage was being continually crossed as ‘Natasha’ fussed around the drinks.

There were a great many diverse interests involved in the continuance – or not –of Vladimir Jochenko’s frail human existence. Yassen’s was, he felt, the most valid position – he was undertaking the task for which he had been offered the most money.

Emptying a glass, barely tasting the abrasive liquid, he slammed it to the table so hard as to make the girl flinch. Unlikely that she was treated well, he suspected, but that was her weakness for him to exploit.

“More vodka now,” he grumbled, and she scurried away.

Jochenko’s platform was not directly opposite his own – he was no fool – but some way away on the facing wall, hard to see unless wearing ingenious contact lenses such as his connections had furnished him with.

Jochenko was a large man, replete with good living on oil money, as always in a mink coat with pink fox trim. His two bodyguards both topped six feet and almost managed the same proportions in width and depth. And there was usually – yes, the uncertain man in the suit – accountant? That was what his papers said but what else was he? Yassen has his suspicions that the suitcase this man invariably carried was full of drugs and that without them Jochenko would retain neither his joie de vivre or the large number of young woman who usually flocked to him like flies to sugar.

Three were on the sofa with Jochenko – any or all could have been Natasha’s sisters, an indentikit selection of blonde hair and fake breasts that must weigh down their shoulder muscles. They looked bored, jiggling automatically to the deafening music.

And now, coming up the stairs, carrying the ubiquitous brand of expensive vodka, a man.

No, a boy, not... Yassen sat forward, as if that would do anything to improve the clarity of his view in the dark and the dry ice. It could not be and yet...

Alex Rider, six years older than the last time Yassen had seen him and with the muscles to show for it, wearing a translucent and tight black sleeveless vest that made him look if anything more naked, blond hair teased into a bed-recent mess and smiling with wet, red lips, sank onto the sofa next to the rotund, sweaty, ridiculous mass of Vladimir Jochenko and kissed him.

 _He is on a mission_ , Yassen thought, when thought returned.

Having ducked below the level of the back of his sofa, he found himself breathing hard and automatically rolling a cigarette to cover his moment of contemplation.

 _He is on a mission for his bastard government and they have not hesitated to use a young man for their entrapment – women are used in such way every hour of every day, why should this surprise me?_

What was the likely British interest in the web around Jochenko and what agenda might the boy be advancing? Or was it merely simple surveillance?

He _had_ to be working. There was no way that anyone could have allowed a boy such as Alex, with such potential, to...

“Yassen Gregorovich,” Alex mouthed – impossible to hear, over the music - as he ascended the stairs and entered the circle of Yassen’s sofas.

Yassen did not stand, did not react with any movement at all, which was too much reaction in itself.

“I beg your pardon,” he said after a moment, mouth dry. “I do not believe I know you.”

Alex was coming closer, sitting down casually against the cushions, displaying his torso like a young, proud god. And the hardness, still, in his eyes – Yassen saw the familiar hatred. “That’s too bad, comrade,” Alex said softly, in perfect Russian – too perfect, no accent – leaning closer. “Perhaps you would like to get to know me?”

“You are not with that man over there? The one who guards himself and his property with all those guns the men with him are inexpertly concealing?” Yassen kept his tone light, and answered in English, studying the boy’s face – still a boy, still so much a boy for all his hard planes of muscle. Were the pupils constricted? Did the facial muscles twitch? He must stop looking at his lips, he could gain nothing from them.

“I work at this club, I entertain the guests.” A voice more suited than Natasha’s to arouse Yassen’s interest and distract him – was this the plot? To stop him noticing some deal of Jochenko’s? Or was Alex spying on him, and Jochenko merely part of a cover?

Moving, Alex stood up then sat down again across Yassen’s lap, his groin nudging at Yassen’s stomach, his hands braced on the sofa behind, his voice soft and his eyes so very hard and hateful.

“You do not want me,” Yassen told him.

Alex surged forwards, an erection straining in his tight jeans, breathing hard by Yassen’s ear.

Yassen let his hand trail down, cupping Alex’s groin until the boy bucked and hissed, grunting with animal pleasure. Then, leaning forward within an inch of cracking their foreheads together, he gave a swift, biting kiss - Alex’s mouth opened immediately. He tasted of expensive vodka and cigarettes, with the soda tang of drugs behind it.

Yassen stood up, throwing him to the ground, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Curled in a reflexive ball, Alex looked up at him, confused, frowning, lip bleeding a little, hard.

“Oh sir!” It was Natasha climbing the stairs now, with new drinks and an expression of panic.

“There has been a mistake,” Yassen barked. “I do not fuck men. What filthy club is run here? I am leaving at once.”

He strode past her – she leapt aside, almost falling – and he descended the stairs, walking swiftly to the door without a backwards glance.

There was a card with a mobile number now in the pocket of Alex’s jacket – the work of a crazy impulse but impossible to change now.

If Alex wanted anything from him, blood or pain or sex or punishment, he would get in touch.

For now, Yassen had had nothing like enough to drink.

\- - -


End file.
